


Silver Tears in The Snow

by RandomFangirl2021



Series: Spiritual Omens [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale is Soft (Good Omens), Aziraphale is a Spirit (Good Omens), But he is also protective, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley is a Human (Good Omens), Gabriel is a Bitch (Good Omens), HMCWTIYS, Human Crowley (Good Omens), Ligur is a Human (Good Omens), Other, Sad with a Happy Ending, The Almighty is Oblivious (Good Omens), and strong as shit, because I'm too soft for pure angst, you ken well wot I mean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-03
Updated: 2021-02-03
Packaged: 2021-03-15 01:34:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29181087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RandomFangirl2021/pseuds/RandomFangirl2021
Summary: So yeah, basically just a dumb AU that popped into my mind.The ratings are for someone's death, a cute stab uwu and depiction of death.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Spiritual Omens [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2173281
Comments: 4
Kudos: 22





	Silver Tears in The Snow

**Author's Note:**

> haha shit oneshot go brr

Aziraphale’s first memories of his life (well, his afterlife, his human life got cut short quite rapidly) were blurry. 

He remembered being held by thousands of arms, wrapped in an infinite light that would never hurt his eyes. Did he even have eyes at this moment? 

A soothing voice would sometimes come to him, singing a soft lullaby in a language he never understood, a language that never existed and never would. The language of the very soul of all living beings, animals, humans, plants. 

The loving voice would not only sing, it also explained to him (in his language this time, fortunately), gently, patiently his tragic death and his new life. 

Aziraphale died of hypothermia in the snow, when he was barely eight. In his lasts moments, like every being that died in this great, deep forest, he turned toward the Tree. 

An enormous apple tree, all knots and thick wood and eternal leaves, adorned with golden spirals that shone in the dark to guide the dead. Inside this tree lived the powerful soul of the Almighty, Mother of the World, and Creator of the spirits that roamed her forest. 

The fragile, human and young soul of Aziraphale was cradled close to Her warmth, waiting for a physical body. 

‘What would you like to be, my sweet child?’ She would whisper. ‘A beautiful pine tree, a gracious hare?’ 

Aziraphale would huddle closer and shake the head he did not have. ‘I want to continue my life where it stopped, Mother.’

One night, as a blizzard was raging, a white owl limped to the Almighty’s roots. The bird curled there and exhaled its last breath, leaving its soul to the mystic tree. If She had a physical form that could do so, a smile would have curled God’s lips. She had the perfect body in mind for Her precious, sleeping child. 

-

Aziraphale opened his eyes in the morning. He was lying down in a thick layer of fresh, white snow, his head resting uncomfortably on a root of the Tree. He slowly sat up and looked around, seeing the forest for the first time in his new life. 

Holding onto his Mother’s trunk, he hoisted himself up on shaky, inexperienced legs. 

‘’…ther’’ he croaked out. His throat felt dry. Trying again, he spoke out: ‘‘Mother.’’

‘Yes, my child?’ 

Aziraphale nearly jumped a foot, startled. The soothing voice came from nowhere, but echoed softly in his head. 

Dumbfounded, he asked out loud despite already knowing the answer: ‘’Do I have a body?’’ 

He had the voice of a child, but the time he had spent waiting gave him the mind of an adult. 

‘Yes, dear, and I’m quite proud of it. Go look at yourself in that frozen lake over here, and tell me what you think.’

Unsteady on his feet, Aziraphale managed to wobble over to the lake. It was difficult to experience this, having a physical body and such, but it eventually came to him again. You never forgot those things. 

He heard something trailing heavily on the snow behind him, but whenever he turned around to see what it was he saw nothing. He leaned over the frozen water.

He found himself looking just like he did when he was human. 

He looked the exact same age as when he died, around eight years old. Blond curls were an absolute mess on the top of his round head, looking almost like a halo, and his cheeks were a slight pink that contrasted with his pale, milky skin.  
Blue eyes stared back straight at him, and he looked down at himself. He was still a little plump, and he cautiously tested his hands. They responded well to his commands. His legs were burrowed knee deep in the snow, and despite being fully naked he did not felt any cold. 

Then, he noticed the _changes._

Small, white and grey feathers were scattered on his shoulders and biceps, and when he lifted a leg from the sea of white he saw that some had grown on his shins too. 

He felt the weight again behind him, and, closing his eyes, focused on it instead of trying to see it. It was heavy, and attached to his shoulder blades. 

He focused harder, willing it to reveal itself, and felt it move on the snow. Aziraphale opened his eyes and saw in his reflection two large wings spread out on his sides. 

Just like the late owl’s ones, they were a pure white on the inside, and stained with black and grey dots on the outside. 

A tiny blue flame flickered to life above his head, unnoticed, as he cried out in joy, turning around to face the Tree. 

‘’Oh, Mother, it’s perfect! I love it!’’ the newborn spirit squeaked out, flapping clumsily his oversized wings as he dashed towards the Tree to give it a good hug. 

A gentle laugh echoed in his mind. ‘I’m glad, my dear, I’m glad.’

At the exact same moment, the young prince of the land, Anthony Crowley, was celebrating his eighth birthday with his family, not thinking a second about the meeting that would, later, change his life. In fact, he was wondering vaguely if ducks had ears. 

Anthony was an adorable little child. 

He had deep red hair that he refused firmly to cut, preferring to wear them long, and eyes quite a peculiar color: they were amber. 

Some would murmur that the red head was a demon incarnate, and in a certain sense.. they weren’t wrong. 

Anthony enjoyed deeply to annoy, prank and well, to be a snarky asshole. Unfortunately for them, the servants of the castle were often the victims of his shenanigans. Otherwise he was, everyone would tell you, rather lovely, bright and funny to be with. 

The word ‘prince’ was a bit too much because he wasn’t quite a prince. His parents only possessed a few fields here and there, but they were quite wealthy (in the villagers’ opinion). 

Sometimes Anthony Crowley would sit in the grass, near the forest but not completely inside, laying lazily in the sunlight, almost basking like a snake. He would always get the feeling that he was being watched, but it was not a displeasing feeling. He had no idea of how to put it into words but he knew one thing for sure: the being, animal or human, that watched him, had no ill intentions toward him. 

One day, after his lessons, he made it to his usual spot to enjoy the sun only to find out that it was already occupied. 

Quite unnerved, he marched toward the intruder to shoo him away, but his footsteps slowed down as he observed his small frame, anger replaced with curiosity. 

It was a little boy like him, with a pile of messy blonde curls atop his round head. He was sitting cross-legged, his hands folded neatly in his lap as he seemed to fidget with something. 

But what caught Anthony’s attention was the ridiculously large cape he wore. 

It was very thick and seemed way too much for the season, but the boy seemed unphased by this. The fabric was a light grey, with black dots scattered all over, and the inside layer of the coat was a pure white. 

“How odd,” he thought. “But it does look very comfy.”

Anthony wasn’t one to question things too long, and he decided to simply flop down next to the intruder. 

“Hi.” He said out loud. 

The boy nearly leapt to his feet, clearly surprised. He stared right at him and Anthony felt surprise hit him like a punch in the gut. He was looking at the most beautiful, the deepest blue eyes he ever gazed into (not that he saw much in his life yet). The stranger whimpered and backed away slightly, as if Crowley just pointed a sword at him. 

“Hey, chill there buddy. Won’t bite.” He grinned, raising an eyebrow. 

Aziraphale never, ever talked with humans. He only spoke to the Almighty, and to a few spirits, such as Gabriel, the peacock. But he observed them, learned things, made experiments. 

One day, he met a young woman taking a stroll in the forest. For some reason, she screamed and ran away when he showed himself. 

That day, he learned that having his wings out scared the humans. So he took the habit to use a small illusion to make them look like a cape. For now, it seemed to work out quite nicely. 

And next came the clothes. He remembered that humans wouldn’t just walk around naked, so (and he still felt bad for that one) he ‘borrowed’ a few clothes from a laundress. 

Last but not least, he noticed with great delight that humans didn’t seem to see the blue flame flickering above his head. If they did, he would have had difficulties to hide it, he thought as he considered Anthony. 

It was the very first time he spoke to a human. And oh boy was he stressed. What if they didn’t spoke the same language? What if he could only hoot like an owl? What if.. What if.. 

“Name’s Crowley. Or Anthony. Depends.” The boy continued. Aziraphale kept on staring and forced himself to breathe. In and out. In and out. 

Anthony Crowley thought that he would not pull a word from the stranger but a faint whisper came to him. A weak mumble that nobody could hear if they weren’t sitting close enough. Anthony was, though, so he grinned. 

“Aziraphale, eh? Good name. I like it. Rolls off the tongue nicely.”

Aziraphale, the little spirit that pretended to be human, blushed furiously. Well that certainly was promising, Crowley thought with a wider smirk.

They met the next day. And the day after that. And the other day after this one. Days turned into weeks.

At each of their meetings, Aziraphale seemed to appear more and more relaxed. He talked a bit more every day, just a bit, but Anthony considered this as a great victory. 

One afternoon, Crowley came to him running like anything and completely breathless. He was late, Aziraphale thought, unable to refrain the happiness that bloomed into him at the sight of his friend. Were they friends? Of course. Friends met often, talked, joked, just like they did together. Of course they were friends. 

The human plopped down next to him, falling quite gracefully (and a bit more dramatically than needed) in the grass and distracting him from his thoughts. 

“Are you okay, Crowley dear?” the spirit asked softly, glancing at the fallen human. 

A meaningless moan of displeasure replied. 

“Would you care to maybe explain further?” Aziraphale inquired. 

Crowley grumbled and threw his arms in the air like the world was against him. 

“It’s the damn studies! Lessons, books!! All of that garbage!!” he groaned, crossing his arms and staring at Aziraphale. “Surely you don’t have any problem with this, Zira. With you being all clever and such.”

At this, the spirit started to fidget and avert his friend’s glance. Anthony knew this behavior. It was the one his friend had when he was anxious, or when they were nearing a subject he wanted to avoid. 

“Something’s on your mind, Zira?” he prodded gently. He had chosen his sentence carefully; the blonde could answer ‘no’ and they would change topics. 

“..I don’t know how to read.” He muttered, hiding his face in his hands. 

A moment of silence passed by. 

“I could always teach you. I mean reading and stuff.” the prince mumbled. 

Aziraphale peaked at him through his fingers. 

“You would do that? For me?” he murmured shyly. 

Crowley sat up and flashed him his brightest smile. 

“’Course Zira! That’s what friends are for, eh? ‘sides, it would allow me to spend more time with you.”

Aziraphale had to hold himself from flapping his wings eagerly in joy. He did well because he could have flown himself out of this land. Not only did Anthony consider him as a friend, but he also wanted to spend more time with him!

Crowley saw the giddy smile blooming on his friend’s face and sighed. He knew what was going to come next and prepared himself. Aziraphale, with a happy squeak, threw himself at him to trap him into a hug. 

“Oh, Crowley, that would be wonderful!” he chirped excitedly, holding him tight with an impressive strength. 

“Yeah, yeah, now let me go would you? Can’t breathe.” the human huffed, looking away with a slight flush. 

-

Aziraphale hummed a little tune as he played around with a hedgehog. Petting gently the little animal’s snout with a finger, he stretched out his wings, leaning back against the Tree. He smoothed down his shoulder feathers, lost in thoughts. He looked like he was around his twenties now, like Crowley. The Almighty understood pretty well his request to pursue his life where it stopped: he aged, like a human. But he knew, deep down, that he was immortal.  
Like every spirit. That he’d never die. Unlike Anthony…

He shooed away that thought. Humans lived a great amount of years. Some even made it to a hundred, he heard! He still had a lot of time to enjoy with his friend. 

He pushed himself up to his feet, dusted carefully the loose, cream pants he wore and walked out of the woods. 

Each step he took enforced his little illusion, his wings and scattered feathers disappearing from mortal sight. Upon reaching the edge of the forest, he sat at their usual spot, resuming his humming. Closing his eyes, he leaned his head back, enjoying the warmth of the sun on his bare chest. 

The moment of peace did not last very long. Smiling wider, he did not bother to open his eyes, focusing on the sounds. Besides the birds chirping and the slight breeze flowing through the trees, he heard feet rasping against the grass, along with a quiet, continuous grumble. 

“lo angel.” 

Anthony had taken this habit to call his friend ‘angel’. Because, well, what else could he call him, really? With his stupidly beautiful eyes, his fucking fluffy hair, his awfully bright smile and so on. But it was purely platonic, of course. Aziraphale was his friend. His very cute friend that he much liked to gawk at when he wasn’t looking. 

“Hello, my dear.”

Then, as he opened his eyes, surprise struck him. 

“Anthony! Did you cut your lovely hair?”

The tall human snarled and crossed his arms, reflexively running a hand through said hair that were now, indeed, much shorter. 

“Mother made me. Said I’d look ‘more masculine’.”

Aziraphale’s brows furrowed as his face scrunched up. He looked at his friend. Crowley was tall, slim, all bones and hips and cheekbones and angles, but still he had some strength. In his opinion he looked just fine. Today the prince wore only pants, like Aziraphale, but not quite the same with, you know, legs. They looked like.. what were they called again? Balloon pants. Yes, he was fairly sure that these were called like that. 

How does one tell his friend (platonically, of course) that they are drop dead gorgeous? Because Aziraphale very much wanted to, he thought as he let his gaze travel on Crowley’s bare chest with a bit more reverence than he should. 

“So sorry, dear boy. I know how much you loved your long hair.”

“S’ fine. They’re just hair, eh? They’ll grow back eventually.” 

A slightly awkward silence passed by, heavy and charged of unsaid words and hidden feelings. Aziraphale cleared his throat, slapped his thigh and exclaimed louder than necessary:  
“Alright! Let’s get on with your training, shall we?” 

Anthony, having successfully teached his alphabet to Aziraphale, claimed that he needed no repayment, but the blonde insisted that there must be something he could do to thank him, no? And, had sighed Crowley, there was. He was almost sure that Aziraphale wouldn’t know a thing about sword fight, yet the spirit seemed eager to teach him when he asked about it. 

“Sure thing angel. Uh, I brought a spear though, was unable to find my sword.”

The other hummed in response, pulling a sword from behind a nearby tree. 

“I’m sure a spear will do just fine.” 

Anthony stared at the sword Aziraphale was holding, an eyebrow raised. It was a wooden sword, simple and efficient albeit new to him. 

“Something wrong, Crowley?” 

“Didn’t you have an iron sword?” 

Aziraphale’s face flushed as he looked down.  
“Uh-“

“You did, it was shining like anything. I found it very pretty.”

The spirit muttered a few words, the pink flush reaching his chest. 

“You what?!” Crowley asked incredulously, staring at him, mouth agape. 

“I gave it away!” the smaller cried out, looking up at his friend. “That poor woman looked so distressed, and life looked hard enough for her with her husband sick and all, and she was expecting, so I told her here, sword, don’t thank me, sell it or something.” 

Aziraphale looked way more nervous about this than needed, worrying his lower lip and looking around like a scared rabbit. 

Crowley reached out and placed a hand on his shoulder, steadying him. 

“Hey, angel, s’ fine. That was a very sweet gesture. Very you.” He teased lightly, risking a soft smile. 

Aziraphale shyly smiled back, sighing.  
“You’re right, Anthony. Maybe I’m worrying too much about this.”  
“’M always right. Right’s my middle name.” 

“I thought it was J-“ 

“It’s a saying, angel! C’mon, you’re teaching me or nah?” Crowley snarled, but in an affectionate way, something only he could manage. He squeezed Aziraphale’s shoulder, before pouncing back and holding his spear ready. 

Would he have been more focused, he’d have felt small, invisible feathers brushing his palm, and seen wings flicker into their plane of existence for a millisecond. 

And if Aziraphale had taken a moment to think about his sword he probably would have had a panic attack, because one should never give away the gifts of the Almighty without expecting consequences. 

But it was not a moment for fear or confusion: the sun shone bright in the sky, the grass was soft under their feet, their weapons light in their hands, and they were with each other. 

The spirit would keep the memory of this afternoon close to his eternal heart for a long, long time, of two young men, oblivious to their problems, sparring with laughter and smiles, in their very own bubble where time seemed to stop each time they met. 

-

‘ _Where_ is the iron sword I gave you, Aziraphale.’ 

The spirit winced, instinctively trying to shield himself with his large wings. Quick, he had to think of a lie, an excuse, anything, anything…

“O-Oh, must have put it down, u-uh, somewhere... Hehe, forget my own head next!” 

The Almighty didn’t reply. Deep down, Aziraphale knew that She would never again, and his little blue flame faltered briefly in shame as he lowered his head. 

Gabriel made his presence known by coughing rather loudly, startling Aziraphale. 

The taller spirit walked slowly toward him, a smug look on his face, his long feathers trailing behind him graciously, looking ready to show off his large colorful tail, all in unusual shades of white and purple. 

“Well, Aziraphale, I told you so.” He crooned, folding long clawed hands in front of his chest. 

The smaller owl shrunk slightly before Gabriel, close to hiding under his wings and carefully avoiding his violet eyes.  
Perfectly aware of the discomfort of the younger, the peacock carried on, slowly starting to circle him. 

“You see,” he started with a cold, satisfied voice, the little feathers on his head fluttering ridiculously. “I’m a much older spirit, sunshine. I know a lot more than you.” 

Gabriel had a green flame above his head, and it was burning bright with the sick satisfaction of its owner. The owl’s paled, reacting to Aziraphale’s distress. He knew where this discussion was heading. 

“And believe me, _soft_ little chick…” Gabriel purred out, leaning toward said chick and particularly pressing on the word ‘soft’. 

His thin lips close to Aziraphale’s ear, he murmured with venom in his voice, not noticing the slight shivers running along grey feathers. “…Nothing good ever comes from those useless humans.”

Suddenly, he was smacked by strong wings unfolding brutally. Aziraphale dashed toward him with a harsh snarl, blue eyes shining fiercely. He had enough. Enough of Gabriel insulting the humans. Enough of their Mother who never tried to reason him. Enough of the other spirits for being so.. so stupidly close-minded, of being the only one using his powers to make the good around him. 

Marble antlers sprouted from his head, diamond claws from his nails, and a deep, growling hoot made its way in his throat. 

**“How do you dare to talk about them like you took the time to know them?!”**

The evening sky darkened, stars hidden by black storm clouds. Rain started to pour, and in a flash of thunder Aziraphale disappeared, leaving the Tree and Gabriel alone. 

-

Twenty years passed. Aziraphale and Anthony Crowley still met every day, and sometimes they even spent the night outside when Anthony started to insist on the perks of stargazing. 

The two men, well, the man, was forty now. Aziraphale looked like he was, too. Yet they still found a way to act childish together, when Crowley was being particularly teasing and Aziraphale was feeling a bit like a bastard. 

But tonight wasn’t for puns and games. 

“Gonna go to war.” The red head muttered in his usual raspy, snarling tone, like he wasn’t dropping a bomb. 

They had been sitting in peaceful, fully contented silence, leaning their backs against an old oak tree that was already here to witness their first encounter. Aziraphale jumped, but not as violently as the first time they talked. 

“What?! Why? I-I thought there was no tension right now..!”

Anthony shrugged.  
“H’ve to. ‘M the ‘Prince’, remember? ‘Sides, go tell that to the good ol’ Lucien of Cifer.” he grumbled, sarcastic. 

Aziraphale just sat there, in shocked silence. He started to fold and unfold his hands, worrying his lower lip, before stopping when another hand laid itself softly on top of his own. It had long, thin fingers, and felt slightly colder than his. 

“I’ll be just fine, angel. You’re not ‘bout to get rid of me this easily.”

The spirit lifted his head and his blue gaze met Anthony’s amber one. His eyes had taken the color of honey and were shining softly in the dusk. 

“When are you going?” the smaller murmured. 

“Two days. Tomorrow I’m getting ready, with the troops ‘n such.”

They stayed silent for a few minutes, looking at each other, two plump hands holding a spider-like one like it was their most precious treasure. In a way, it was. 

Crowley gently lifted Aziraphale’s left arm with his free hand, before scooting closer to sit nearer to his friend, almost pressed against his side. The blond could decide to let him at this distance, or to bring him closer. 

The strong arm immediately wrapped around his lanky, pointy shoulders, pulling Anthony closer. Aziraphale placed his chin on top of his head, blocking him from seeing his face. 

The human snuggled closer, burying himself in his friend’s warmth with a soft sigh, closing his eyes and pressing their hands together. Somehow, the spirit never understood this much that his friend was a human, a mortal being ever so delicate and helpless. 

Rain begun to fall, almost gently, and Aziraphale lifted his wings, disguised as his usual cape, to shield the frail, living being against him from it. 

He was tearing up, mimicked by the grey clouds in the sky. 

-

The night sky ripped apart,  
Stars crying,  
Blood leaking,  
And men dying.  
War had come to a start. 

-

Anthony Crowley, like every soldier in a bloody, messy melee, was simply trying to stay on his feet, stab enemies and preferably not get stabbed. 

Aziraphale’s lessons were useful, and he almost danced among the murderous crowd, recognizing enemies and slashing them properly before they could recognize him first. 

Spinning around upon hearing a particularly close scream, he did not see the dark skinned knight approaching him treacherously. Luke Ligur licked his lips, eyes locked on his target, and dashed toward it. 

-

Deep down in the forest, Aziraphale suddenly woke up from an agitated sleep. Something was wrong, and, pushing away any coherent thoughts, he leapt to his feet, deployed his wings and flown away into the night.  
He ought to find Crowley, and **quickly.**

-

The blade of Ligur’s sword was made to kill. Kill, not even mutilate or wound: he always killed with it. Anthony Crowley would not be an exception. 

The iron sunk easily into the exposed back, making its way in the living, palpitating, human flesh. 

Blood vessels broke, skin tore like paper, and the pain triggered an ancient, primal reflex in Crowley. 

He _screamed._

-

Aziraphale’s wings were a blur around him, beating with all their might. Not even a fellow spirit would have been able to catch a glimpse of him: he was pure speed, might, and distress. 

Even if the fight was relatively far away, he heard very clearly the howl that ringed to his ears among the chaos. 

Only one coherent thought made its way into his mind: **Crowley.**

-

It was as if the Moon herself crashed to the sullied floor. 

An immense creature, a beast even, was roaring furiously, making its presence known on the battlefield. 

Four grey wings were deployed in the air, and hundreds of blue eyes scattered all over the thing’s body were glaring, staring down every soldier foolish enough to try and approach him. 

Because it was a he, or so we could suppose from its humanoid shape, a complete nightmare, Nature’s greatest mistake, with diamond claws and marble antlers, a blue fire above its head flaring like the greatest blaze man (or God) ever created, and a distorted mouth screaming out fury, distress, despair, a human voice growling for _revenge._

The thing was curled protectively around an agonizing form, with copper hair messy from the fight and bloodstains on its pale, freckled skin. 

Aziraphale had picked up Crowley softly, oh, so softly, daring to lay a clawed hand on his angular face. 

Snow started to fall, and every single soldier, enemy or ally, were promptly turned into beautiful stone statues, incrusted with marble and diamond. And if a wing knocked Ligur down, shattering him into a million pieces, nobody noticed. 

**“Crowley, oh Crowley, why wouldn’t you listen to me?”**

The spirit kneeled down, pulling his precious, mortal friend to his chest, curving his wings above and around him to protect him from the falling snowflakes. 

He expected no response from him, and he contented himself with crying silently, silver tears rolling down his pale cheeks to land on the pristine snow. 

But a faint grumble echoed, not strong enough to ruffle Aziraphale’s thinnest feathers, but enough for him to hear it and peek at his friend between his wings. 

**“Crowley?”** he whimpered, looking strangely small, even in this powerful form. 

“Y’r wings.. They f’ckin’ soft, y’ know that?”

The spirit laughed and cried at the same time, because it was so unbelievably _Crowley_ to say that, and for a moment they could forget that the human was waltzing rather quickly toward Death, who waited for him with open arms. 

**“Oh, Anthony, thank you.”** He murmured instead, leaving all his feelings hidden under layers of anxiety. 

Anthony could question many things right now, such as his friend’s new... style. He could also bawl his eyes out and wail like a fucking banshee, his wound was a pain in the ass.

His mind, though, focused on what it considered the most important. 

“Yer’ cryin’.”

Aziraphale did not bother to wipe his unusual tears away. 

**“Of course I am, you imbecile! You’re dying in my arms and I can do nothing to save you!”** he cried out. 

Crowley played it cool, like he always did, trying to make his friend smile even on the verge of death. 

“Am I?”

It didn’t seem to work. The blond pulled his friend closer, burying him in his feather-covered chest and wrapping his large wings more carefully around his smaller frame. 

**“Shut up.”** he murmured, closing his numerous eyes. 

Anthony Crowley made a noise of shock, trying to muster the energy to tease him for swearing. But his body put a firm stop to that, and he started to realize that he was growing cold, despite Aziraphale’s warmth close to him. 

He closed his amber eyes and relaxed ultimately in the owl’s strong arms.

Silver tears fell in snow, along with drops of human blood.

-

For the first time in twenty years, Aziraphale came back to the Tree. 

He sat down, wings wrapped tightly around something he carried with all the care in the world. 

Not bothering to cover himself, he laid his head back against the trunk and sighed, forming a little cloud in the cold night air. 

**“Oh, Mother,”** he sighed wearily. **“Why must you create happiness, only to take it from me?”**

His blue eyes weren’t as bright as before, his mouth not smiling anymore, even the little flame above his head made itself small, pale, almost dead. 

A red-bellied black snake approached. Bravely, albeit slowly, he crawled toward the tree, cold creeping into his being and inviting him to stop, curl and sleep. Despite his determination, he gave into that order, flopping down halfway toward the Tree. 

**“Oh, you poor thing.”** Aziraphale sighed softly. He reached down with a hand, picking up delicately the small serpent and bringing him next to him, next to the Tree he so desperately wanted to reach a moment ago. 

**“There,”** he sighed. **“I hope Mother will be good to you.”**

‘You certainly are, Aziraphale.’ A tender voice echoed, like a warm breeze in the freezing night. 

But the little boy had grown up, and he wouldn’t be comforted so easily. And Aziraphale was tired, oh, so tired. Again, he had the voice of an exhausted being, all of his might leaving him. 

“Forgive me if I am not throwing myself at your roots, Mother, for no longer I can place all of my trust in you.” he uttered dully, absent-mindedly caressing the late snake’s cold scales. 

‘You sound changed, Aziraphale. But I understand your resentment-‘ 

“No, Mother, _you don’t_.” the spirit snapped, blue eyes glowering slightly. He needed to get it off his heart, spill the beans, tell the Almighty. “You stay here, enclosed in your tree, and do not see the world and how your children are acting. They are not just roaming your forest, some make life harder for humans, or bully weaker, younger beings.” 

He frowned, seeming to realize something, and looked down at a root, brows furrowed. 

“You didn’t make us to trouble the mortals, did you?”

‘Goodness, no. You’re right, Aziraphale, I was naive this whole time.’ 

Aziraphale was quite surprised, half-expecting to be smitten for this affront. Maybe I would have preferred that, he thought gloomily, remembering “his” human.

‘I’m deeply sorry. I did not realize all of this… mayhem.’

A moment of silence passed by, and Aziraphale started to shiver slightly, his body seeming to acknowledge that a thin layer of snow was covering it.

‘What are you holding so close, my child?’ God asked softly. 

“Why ask, if you know the answer.” Said child murmured, new tears threatening to roll down his cheeks if only they melted from their ice state. Cold was really affecting, deep in the forest.

‘Because I know you need to get it off of your heart.’ 

Aziraphale dared to take a look between his four, thick wings. Not a single snowflake had dared to land on Crowley’s face. The red head seemed to be asleep, his eyelids delicately hiding amber eyes, and his lips slightly parted.

The spirit had to quickly pull back before he sullied the mortal with his abnormal tears. Silver tear streaks on a loved face… 

“ _Oh, Mother, I loved him so much!_ ” he choked out, unaware until then of how much he needed to say it out loud. 

“He was everything to me, I woke up to meet him, I fell asleep knowing I’d see him the next day, I laughed with him, I smiled, cried, learned things… He told me how to read, how to write! How to… How to…” his voice broke and he sniffled, letting out a small sob. 

“How to love… And now he’s gone, because I was unable to teach him how to fight properly.”

Aziraphale slumped against the Tree’s trunk, feeling pathetic and lonely. He held the motionless body close to his resurrected heart, and yet he never felt so dead.

The owl closed his eyes and let sleep claim him. 

-

The forest was silent, and an hybrid being was fast asleep against an ornate tree. He had antlers from which hung crystal-clear stalactites, and impressive, frosted wings covering something he cradled close from the cold and the rest of the world.

Yet the snow would not cover him, as if an higher power had forbidden snowflakes to land on him.

-

Aziraphale slept.

Winter had left, and spring was gently poking at every animal and plant so they started to stir awake. 

Aziraphale did not, and would have slept for another season if something hadn’t started to shake him fiercely. 

He did not want to wake up. It meant finding a world without Crowley, without the love of his life, and he did not want of such a world. 

Yet fate seemed to be on his side, for once. The being trying to shake him awake was sitting in his lap as if it belonged here, the owl’s wings loosely wrapped around his waist as if Aziraphale had placed them here himself. 

It was a male, for sure. But one wouldn’t think of him as human, for instead of legs he had a long, thin serpent tail, with black and red scales. A rich gold was completely devouring the sclera of his almond-shaped eyes, barely disturbed by black, slit pupils, and two pointy fangs were showing, along with a hissing forked tongue whenever the being opened his mouth. 

Wings sprouted from his shoulder blades, straight, thin, and more for the show than anything. They were a deep black, but when the sunlight hit them they revealed iridescent green lights: a connoisseur would have recognized the plumage of a Cayuga duck.

An amber flame was flaring with excitement over his head, sparkling and shining. Long, copper hair were cascading down his shoulders and back, reaching the ground, and he was grinning like the demon he was. 

“C’mon angel, wake up!” 

And Aziraphale did not regret doing so.

**Author's Note:**

> No seriously it was fun to make. I hope your eyes did not bleed, because I'm not English : my first language is french xD luv u all


End file.
